Someday, I'll Laugh About This
by xfighterplane
Summary: After nearly getting expelled from his public school, slacker genius Christopher Plovert is transferred into the elite world of Briarwood Academy. The story of parties, pranks, misfits, and how nothing ever goes to plan- things are getting interesting.
1. the exposition

**one: a little exposition**

"Christopher, can you tell me why you're here?" Here, of course, being the school guidance counselor's cramped office. Mr. Myner watched me carefully, head resting in both of his hands with his kind blue eyes urging me to speak up. To explain why someone like me would be ever see the light of day in the office reserved for overachievers on the verge of a mental breakdown because that B-plus is advanced calculus would "_screw me over when I apply to Yale_" or over-dramatic girls who couldn't attend class because "_he broke my heart_" and "_we were gonna get married, you know_?"

I was not either of those.

My gaze shifted to the motivational poster plastered above Mr. Myner. It read, "_Even if you fall on your face, you're still moving forward_" with a picture of a runner leaning dangerously close to the ground en route to the finish line. Isn't that sort of a terrible message? Falling on your face is nothing to celebrate, it's actually quite humiliating. Trust me, I know. Especially if you're that runner guy, because not only did you fall on your face, but you're gonna get smoked by the competition. Your face gets all cut up and shit and for what? To elbow your friends smugly in the ribs and say, "_See that gash on my face? It was all worth it. I moved forward_."

"Because Danny Robbins is an asshole." Usually, I reserve that kind of snarky answer for people like my ex-step mother (one of five, Dad's still going strong) or the classmates who don't realize that I'm just biding my time until graduation and that I never really cared for their typical teenage angst shenanigans. But, unusual times call for unusual measures.

Mr. Myner nodded his head thoughtfully. To be fair, he would've nodded thoughtfully even if I had said, "_Actually, I'm considering becoming a male burlesque dancer. Starting with becoming a male._" But, with that sweater vest/glasses combination he was sporting, I think he was destined to be an understanding person.

Danny Robbins was indeed an asshole. It all began with the fact that I'm invisible. At Abner Double Day, you're either a delinquent or on the road to an Ivy League due to our advanced courses curriculum. Half of the school is out partying, complete with the drugs and alcohol and encounters with the police force. The other half is holed up the library, chugging down caffeine so they can trick their minds that studying thirty hours a day is possible. The divide was glaringly obvious.

But me? My dad was a "freelance consultant", which actually meant his job was to give people in various fields advice he had never studied. We moved around a lot from state to state, so I was a pro at successfully blending into new environments. Especially ADD, seeing as I didn't have the dedication to be one of future Ivy kids or the balls to get wasted in public settings. It was perfect, at least for me. To be honest, I had never been one for creating tight friendships or bonds. It was almost always a waste of time.

But everything changed when Mrs. Prescott, the office secretary, enlisted me as her office assistant. A combination of me having no other commitments, a clean record, and a somewhat trustworthy face, she had me filing papers, organizing the school mail, and making copies of anything the teachers might need.

Including exams.

It started out innocently enough. I was too naive to see the potential then; handling tests meant nothing to me. Until Kori Geldman came along.

Here's Kori for you: tall, blond, leggy. Out of my league because she was pretty and because she was a somewhat normal female. But I guess on her way to seduce the hall monitor to excuse her from her class or hand the principal a check for $20,000 for the much beloved academics department in return for not telling Daddy Dearest what (or who) she was caught doing last week in the janitor's closet. She was part of the delinquent group, of course,

There I was, making copies and listening to my iPod and being a decent kid. She sauntered right by the copy room and came to abrupt halt when she saw the precious papers I was stapling together. With a sparkling look in her eyes, she clacked in her towering heels right over to me and said, "It's Chris, right?"

She had to say it twice because I automatically assumed there was another Chris in the room. "Um, yeah," I eventually replied.

"Is that the chemistry test for Kierson?"

"Um, yeah."

Suddenly, her eyes glittered and she started hopping up and down excitedly. "OhmyGod I'm taking that test today and I didn't get to study because Allie-Rose just _had_ to have her party last night and OhmyGod can I please see it pretty please?" That was actually exactly how it all came out, no hyperbole or anything. Just a garbled blend of pleas.

And then I did the stupidest thing ever and said simply,"Um, yeah," and handed Kori a copy of the test for her to study. Vaguely, I registered how dumb that was, but in retrospect, I think the monster hug and kiss on the cheek she gave me blinded my judgment.

It all went downhill from there. Word got out that Kori knew what was going to be on that test in advance—no way in hell she could've aced that—and the masses demanded to know how she did it. Without any quandaries, she told them she got the test from "that Chris guy who works in the office." People quickly put two and two together and realized I was the guy for all their cheating needs.

Within the span of a few days, I became That Guy. Want to gain an advantage on that next history quiz? Ask That Guy. Want to know what to bother studying for for math? Give That Guy a visit. The funny thing was that it wasn't even that much of a stretch for me—just pressing some more buttons—but everyone acted like I was some sort of messiah, sent from the heavens to save their grade. For once, the delinquents and Ivies had a common denominator: me. The bad kids wanted a test copy so they could scrape a D to pass; the good kids wanted that boost to push them to an A-plus to look for college apps. Poor, practically senile Mrs. Prescott never noticed the influx of kids stopping by to say "hi" to me on my assistance hour, she probably just assumed I made a lot of friends recently or something. Truly, it was a golden age.

Then Danny Robbins came along and screwed it up. Here's Robbins: pretty boy rich kid type, with the slacker attitude of the delinquents but the upper class lifestyle the Ivies hoped for. Naturally, he would ask for a test copy. But unfortunately, he didn't stop there. Not only did he want a copy of his advanced physics final, but he wanted the answers as well.

"Make it happen for me, Chrisman," he told me in the copy room, in the douchey tone people use when they want to be on your good side.

I shook my head. "I can't get you the answers." I added, "Danman?" after a brief beat.

He cocked an eyebrow. "I believe you can, as a matter of fact," he pressed, challenging me.

"Up yours, as a matter of fact." Turning away from him, I plugged my trusty earphones back in and returned to producing duplicates of a geography exam for Lisa Chung and her posse.

Robbins shot me a deathly glare, squaring his shoulders and sucking in his breath in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. He cracked his knuckles menacingly, and I knew he was about to seriously mess me up.

And he did. But not by punching my face in or calling me out for a public duel or anything.

He told on me. Really. He just walked over to the principal's office and said, "That Chris Plovert guy? He's been making copies of tests and handing them out so people can study them for the past month. Just a head's up, man." Basically like that, all nonchalant and laidback like he was notifying him that the cafeteria was serving fresh pizza and not like one of his students was a perpetrator of academic fraud.

What followed was a barrage of phone calls to my home (declaring I was a screw up), meetings with the principal and deans (explaining to my father why I was a screw up), and now a meeting with the guidance counselor (to figure out how I ended up being a screw up).

Which brings us back to , his unreasonably tiny office, and the insensible motivational posters. "I don't think you should be blaming your problems on Daniel. We're here to talk about you."

Talking about me was never one of my strong suits, so I yawned and said, "Can we start about my body temperature? It's like the Sahara in here."

"Don't change the subject, Christopher." Mr. Myner suddenly dropped the Mr. Rogers-_it's-a-wonderful-day-in-the-neighborhoo_d attitude. "You broke countless school rules. Cheating. Abuse of assistant privileges. And not to mention because of your antics, all the teachers have decided to throw out the unusually high test scores your peers have 'earned' this month." Well, at least I went out with a bang.

Shrugging, I put on my most earnest face. "I'm really sorry for what I did and going through this experience has changed my outlook on life, giving me a new respect for rules and academic integrity?"

"Nice try, kid." Groaning, Mr. Myner opened a manila folder labeled "PLOVERT, CHRISTOPHER J." and skimmed through some papers. "I just don't understand it. Your transcript is outstanding, nothing lower than an A—"

"I'm just good at memorizing stuff," I countered sheepishly. Praise was always strange to me.

"And test taking," he added, eyes widening, "you scored nearly perfect on your SATs—"

My ears heated up. "It's easy once you figure out how the test works."

Mr. Myner took off his glasses and stared at me curiously. After a moment of intense study at my apparent discomfort, he mused, "You're clearly gifted, Christopher. Why don't you apply yourself, study harder and take higher level classes? Why cheat?"

I didn't bother to point out that I never made a copy of any exam for myself, I couldn't be bothered with looking through any of them. I mumbled, "I don't know," the classic slacker response.

He sighed deeply. "Look, I've seen hundreds of students since working here. The brainy types. The slackers. But you? You're both. And do you know what smart and lazy make?"

"Smazy?" I answered innocently.

"No," he cut me off sharply, "it makes a dangerous combination. You have potential, but just no work ethic. You're always going to be using your mind to find the easy way out. " Accurate description, I'd give him that. "And personally, I'd hate to see that potential wasted." With that, he pulled out a glossy brochure and handed it to me with a flourish.

"What's this for?" I asked, peering at the paper. The front was a photo of a Victorian style building, surrounded by students lounging around the lush garden. Students, I may add, that looked way too excited to be reading their textbooks.

Mr. Myner smiled proudly. "Briarwood Academy, your new school."

That was the precise moment where my heart dropped into my chest. Not because of changing schools, because I was used to it by now, but at the fact the decision seemed to come out of nowhere. What happened to making kids write lines on the chalkboard when they mess up? Nowadays, those kids are just shipped off so they're not the school's problem any more. Plus, did he see the picture on the brochure? How elitist upper class can you get?"What the hell?"

He just laughed at my spirited response. "Just hear me out," he stated. "I went to Briarwood Academy when I was your age. Trust me, it's fantastic. Interesting people, accelerated courses, and a multitude of teachers to help prepare you for college." Seeing my wariness at his obviously practiced spiel, he added, "And it's a boarding school. All the way up in Westchester." Like that would change my opinion of it, leaving the surprising niceness of Brooklyn to live at school and be there twenty-four seven.

So I was honest and said, "Fuck. No."

Mr. Myner only shrugged. "Well, there is one other option..."

Immediately, I perked up. "Lay it on me." Anything had to be better than bourgeois Briarwood.

Exhaling, he told me, "You're going to be expelled from Abner Double Day, I'm afraid. The principal is very adamant on punishing you harshly as an example for the other students to show the school takes this incident seriously. And of course, you being expelled would destroy your school record and ruin your college applications..." And my life would be a steaming pile of shit, the end.

My voice went hoarse as I asked, "And if I go to Briarwood?"

"Well for one, transferring to Briarwood would mean you won't be expelled here, so you'd fine. I've already discussed that with the principal. I can call in some of my personal connections to get you in on scholarship." He met me directly in the eyes. "But Christopher, if you are to go to Briarwood, you will be taking all advanced classes and you will be expected to maintain a grade point average of 3.5. No potential will be wasted there."

I nodded my head in understanding, that understanding being that both options were horrible. The bell rang for the next class and gave me a brief solace to collect my thoughts. "Can I have some time to think about this?"

"Of course," Mr. Myner answered, handing me a stack of papers from Briarwood. "You can read up on these in the meantime."

Taking the hefty stack, I muttered, "Thank you." I gathered my stuff and made my way toward the door to leave. But before I could make a clean getaway to think about all the shit just thrown at me, he called out, "Oh and Christopher?"

"Yes?"

"Consider Briarwood a clean slate. Don't screw it up."

* * *

><p><strong>author's note: So, I'm planning on this story being my summer project, but it's still a rough sketch of it all and probably kinda crappy. I'm gonna finish "The Great Inbetween" soon too, in the next few chapters or so. I hope you guys liked getting to the mind of slacker genius Christopher Plovert :)<strong>

**Reviews and feedback is always appreciated! :)**

**xo,  
><strong>

**Ren**


	2. the introductions

**two: the introductions  
><strong>

It wasn''t as nice as I thought it would be.

Don't get me wrong, Briarwood was totally money. Literally. I could smell the hundred dollar bills within getting one mile of the school. But the second I got out of my taxi, the school's luxurious campus overwhelmed me. It was almost exactly as the brochure picture, right down to the immaculate gardens and even more immaculately dressed students lounging around the exterior setting.

There was a peace to the air, but I couldn't shake the unnerved feeling that lingered in my stomach. The feeling that maybe this wasn't such an easy way out of my problems, that you actually can't just transfer away to another school to escape your screw-ups at the old one. That's what wasn't nice.

For the first time, I was actually anxious about being the new kid.

After my meeting with Mr. Myner, I went straight home and explained the situation to my father. Dad had been hunched over his laptop, with the empty Chinese takeout boxes and coffee cups indicating that he had been up for the most of the night. Our tiny apartment seemed to have shrunk and was extra messy, but he didn't register that fact at all.

"So you're going to be expelled for fraud..." Dad had started after I recounted Mr. Myner's speech to me with a hint of skepticism, "or get transferred to some rich kid private school?"

"Yup."

He took off his glasses as he looked over the brochure in disbelief. "And this school is one of the best in the nation?"

"Yup."

"And you'd be there on an academic scholarship? And I don't have to pay a dime?"

"I believe that's the gist of it."

Dad gaped a bit. "Well then, son." He stood up from the table and clamped his hand onto my shoulder—his signature form of affection. "You'd better start packing." And that was that, a simple decision for a simple family. There was no angst, no protests, no tears. Going to Briarwood was clearly the better option for, and not even the prospect of his only son going away to school could keep my father from denying me a free, kick-ass education. Plus, the old man's had seventeen years of me. I think that was more than enough.

In the span of a few days, I had gotten all my things together (which wasn't much) and Mr. Myner sorted out all my transfer details. My departure was celebrated by a steak dinner with my dad and a half-hearted goodbye card made by Lisa Chung, bless her heart. The cab ride upstate to Briarwood was used to study over my new student information and housing arrangements: I'd be living in Coolidge Hall, room 405.

But I stood now in Coolidge Hall, room 405, and it only just hit me that this was it. You know in movies or TV shows, where one major event happens to the lead—death of a loved one, a new enemy resurfacing, getting the girl—and that event's affects were so astoundingly important to the storyline of the story that the audience knows immediately that nothing will ever be the same? That's a game changer. And I was in the midst of one.

My room was cluttered, with clothes and papers strewn about and covering a significant part of the carpet. Posters covered the walls, mostly of bands that I had never heard of. There were countless photographs and clippings of the last World Cup and their presence was enhanced by the soccer equipment left haphazardly in the corner. In short, it was a clusterfuck.

Or at least, half of it was.

I assumed the half of the room that looked like it was ravaged by a hurricane belonged to my roommate, who was nowhere to be found. The other half of the room was bare. Blank gray walls, plainly made bed, and an empty drawer. Figuring I probably looked stupid just standing there and staring, I began to unpack my belongings.

Seven years of having to pack up, move, and then unload honed my skills and I finished the task in about thirty minutes. I didn't have any photos or posters, just my clothes, some random stuff, and the textbooks Briarwood's academic advisor (they actually have one of those) said I'd need.

A few pages into "Advanced Higher Level Chemistry" when I heard a knock on the door. Before I could get up to open it, in came some guy. He was nearly my height, which was a feat considering I stood at a lanky six-foot-three, but this guy looked like he could easily take me in a fight. He looked Spanish, with dark hair and olive skin. But what stood out most to me was his hefty soccer bag and t-shirt featuring one of the bands plastered on the wall.

And then, the realization hit me that this guy was my roommate.

"Hey," he greeted coolly, throwing his stuff on the floor carelessly, "you must be the ass who ruined my streak of having a room to myself for the past three years."

His easy smile negated his words. "Yup, I'm that ass."

"Own it," he remarked with a nod. "I'm Josh. Josh Hotz. Nice to meet you."

"Chris Plovert, back at you."

Josh's face turned up in a grimace. "Ah shit, another Chris? You'll be one of a thousand, man."

"There's a thousand Chrises?"

"A mild exaggeration," he admitted, "but you've got some competition in the memorable Chris department. There's Chris Abeley, who could buy your grandma's soul if he wanted to. Chris Georgeson, chief jerk-off. Chris Goldstein, twelve-year-old senior. And, my personal favorite, Chris the Piss, whom after a memorable Halloween party decided to—"

"I get the point," I interjected, predicting how the story would end. Spoilers: nastily.

Josh laughed and shrugged. "Sorry man, but it's true. Prepare to be known on a first and last named basis, but not the the bad-ass way."

Mulling around the idea of being addressed by both names, I suggested, "So just call me Plovert."

"Hmm, Plovert. Plovert. Plovert," Josh tested out my new name. "Sounds intriguing." He clapped his hands together and said in a dramatic tone, "Let it be known that henceforth, you shall be known solely as Plovert. Huzzah."

I stifled a laugh, "Huzzah."

Josh hopped off his bed and grabbed my schedule. "Shit. Calculus, chemistry, world history, and English lit. All AP." Shock registered on his face. "What's your story, Plovert?"

I frowned, not knowing exactly what he meant. "Huh?"

"Your story. Come on, you transfer to Briarwood a month into senior year and you're taking an unreasonable amount of AP classes. Explain it."

Truth was, I didn't know how to explain it. There was no respectable way to say, "You see, I made a lot copies of exams for people so they could study but not a lot of friends, but luckily my test scores saved me from being expelled. Unfortunately, it brought me here.

"Late acceptance, I guess. They were impressed by my grades." It wasn't a lie as much as it was an omission.

Josh looked impressed. "Nice one." He glanced at my schedule again. "We'll have calc and history together. Thank God. I was getting so bored in there I thought I would have to learn."

"We wouldn't want that." So, at least my roommate was cool enough. Not that I was particularly cool myself, but after realizing all the kids at ADD were wrapped up in their own little worlds and that it would be impossible to make friends unless I was on the road to Princeton or prison, his apparent friendliness was welcome.

"JOSH!" First came the shrill scream, and then the door flung open and in came an exceptionally angry girl. Her eyes were narrowed into deadly slits and her dark hair was wild, possibly wilder than her. She immediately let loose on Josh, who was the picture of both fear and amusement.

"YOU. ARE. THE..." And that was all I got until the girl started to verbally assault him in frenzied Spanish. Now, I had taken Spanish for the past three years, but I could only pick out a few random words like "car" and "lake", along with a cornucopia of some choice expletives.

Occasionally, Josh would lift his arms in the air to signal defeat and try to interrupt her by saying, "_Sí, pero escucha_..." But she wasn't having it. In fact, it had the opposite effect, with her only yelling louder. A few curious students stood at our door and watched from a safe distance, lest they get caught up in the fire.

After three minutes of almost straight cursing, the girl finally stopped to catch her breath. It was only then that she noticed my awkward presence. "_¿Quién es?_" she asked, staring me down suspiciously.

Josh took that opportunity to distract her from her train of rage. "Introductions! How rude of me! Plovert, this is my incredibly stupid sister Alicia—"

"Half sister," she corrected with contempt.

He snorted. "You always say that when you're pissed at me. Incredibly Stupid Sister Alicia, this is Plovert. My new roommate."

I waved meekly. "Hola."

"Hey," she muttered, before turning back to her brother. "I'm serious, Josh," she growled, poking him menacingly in the chest, "lay off of him. Or else." Alicia didn't give him a chance to respond to her threat before she stormed out, pushing away the startled students in her wake.

"_Mujere_," Josh grumbled under his breath, collapsing on his bed.

Unwilling to let the mood become uncomfortable, I mused, "So that's your sister." Stupid and obvious, yes, but at least it was something.

"She's so batshit sometimes." His reply was muffled by the pillow on his face. "And by sometimes, I mean all the time."

"What happened?"  
>He sighed. "Her asshole boyfriend happened. Cheated on her with this one girl at some stupid party." He sat up to face me. "So naturally, me and my friends get a little revenge on him for her. Nothing big. We just moved his car for him. To the bottom of the lake."<p>

I don't know what was worse, the fact that he actually did that or that he considered it "nothing big." Regardless, I couldn't help but be impressed.

"And yeah," Josh continued, "she didn't take it very well. Turns out, she forgave the asshole because they 'love each other' and they're gonna 'work through this'. Bullshit."

There was nothing for me to add, so I just nodded vaguely. Josh checked his clock and said, "Shit. It's dinner time. Come on, I'd like to eat my frustration away."

* * *

><p>Dinner at Briarwood was a relatively important event. According to Josh, everyone was required to have the evening meal together in the dining hall as a way to "<em>foster bonds between students<em>" and "_create a familial environment at the school_." What it actually meant, he added, was that it was way easier for the cleaning staff to do all their dishes at the same time. Not that I minded having dinner with a huge group of people, it sure beat eating two-day old takeout in front of the TV while my dad worked.

The dining hall was enormous, with tons of multiple tables scattered about, filled with students chatting excitably. The food was served in the back, where its aroma wafted into the air and surrounded us. And my God, the food. I haven't seen so many fresh fruits and vegetables since, well, never. Bread, various meats, pastas, dessert. I take back everything bad I ever said about this joint, it was amazing.

Josh led me to a table in the back with our food. Pot roast, mashed potatoes, and some artichoke dish the server recommended—I was in heaven.

"Gentlemen," Josh said to the two guys already situated the table, "this is Plovert." They shared a brief look of doubt, but Josh dissolved it by adding, "No worries. He's cool."

Josh pointed at the guy with the beanie and strange mismatched eyes. "Plovert, this is Cam. " Cam nodded coolly. "And that's Dempsey," he added, gesturing to the other guy with a mop of blond hair.

"Hey, man," greeted Cam.

"Sup," Dempsey said cordially before turning to Josh with a laugh. "So what's this I hear about Leesh nearly tearing your head off?"

Josh rolled his eyes. "She didn't nearly tear my head off."

"That's not what I heard," Cam cut in with a smirk. "I heard she called you a pendejo and you cried."

"I did not cry!" Josh defended himself indignantly to the snickers of his friends. "And she called me a lot worse than pendejo. She's really not taking this well."

Dempsey stared at him in disbelief. "And how did you expect her to take it? You drowned her boyfriend's car."

"With some gratitude! Harrington cheated on her with STD Strawberry of all people." Josh glowered, ignoring my shock of a girl being named _Strawberry_. "And it was a group effort. I recall a certain someone distracting the campus security while we hot-wired the car."

Dempsey reddened, but laughed it off anyway. "You speak the truth," he conceded. "Not that I minded though, Earl gets cuter by the year." So, Dempsey batted for the other team. I had to admire his brashness about it.

The other guys laughed. Josh claimed, "What happened to Petrov, the rushin' Russian?"

"He was way too slow, man." More snorts and punches on the shoulder galore. Even I had to join in.

Cam, on the other hand, was considerably more sensible. "Seriously, though," he stated, lowering his voice, "do you think Derrick knows it was us who did it? He was pretty pissed." His voice reeked of caution.

Josh scoffed, as if he was offended at the idea of that Derrick kid figuring it out. "Harrington's got less braincells than Dean Don's left nut. I highly doubt he knows it's us. Probably thinks it was a prank from some other person he's shit all over. Plus, Leesh wouldn't rat us out."

Cam didn't look convinced. Dempsey shrugged. "We didn't leave any evidence behind. I think we're good."

"I beg to differ," came another voice. A female voice. A female voice so angry that it would put Alicia's rampage mode to shame. A blue notebook was slapped on the table with such force that it actually knocked down a saltshaker. Josh, Cam, Dempsey, and I all snapped to attention.

"Uh, oh," whispered Cam, "Insane Layne coming through."

The cause of this was a particularly petite girl. Well, maybe she wasn't small as much as the rest of us were taller. She had choppy brown hair cut to her ears, with bright green eyes piercing through her fringe. Despite her stature and her crazily mismatched clothes, she managed to hold a presence over the rest of us. A very terrifying presence, that is.

"What the hell is this?" she snarled, looking at the notebook with an extreme disgust.

"Um, a notebook?" Dempsey responded, putting on puppy dog eyes.

Clearly, those eyes had no effect on her. "Shut. Up." She exhaled sharply. "Now, can anyone tell me what this notebook was doing on the dock of the lake?"

"Catching some rays," snorted Cam quietly, not daring to meet her eyes.

Only Josh was brave enough to directly speak to her. "Come on, Layne. Relax, it's not like a notebook can be traced back to—"

"Wait!" She cut him off and wheeled on me. "Who's this?" But what she really meant, I believe, was "can we trust him?"

Josh waved her off. "That's Plovert. My new roommate. Chill your ovaries, okay? He's not some CIA double agent."

Her eyes lingered on mine for a moment, causing me to smile feebly. Layne's expression didn't falter, but she set her focus back on her apparent partners in crime. "Which one of you idiots did this? Do you know what—"

"Our names aren't in here," Dempsey observed after flipping through the notebook. "Just some of Cam's random sketches. But no names."

Whipping so fast to Cam that I thought her neck might snap, Layne hissed, "Cam! Everyone in the whole damn school knows how you draw, if I hadn't found it someone could've figured out it was your notebook left at the lake and put two and two together! Shit, think for once in your life!"

Josh shook his head. "You're giving the people here too much credit. Cam could've just been drawing by the lake or whatever. It doesn't mean anything," he countered, sipping his coffee. "And_ you_found the notebook, okay? So relax. We're good."

Layne didn't seem all that relaxed, but she sat down anyway and started eating the bread off Dempsey's plate. "We'd better be," she muttered with her mouthful.

The conversation after that flowed into talk of an upcoming physics test, how some people were caught getting high on the roof, and other slightly memorable events of the day.

When Cam, Dempsey, and Layne became immersed in a debate over whether or not a lion could beat a bear in a fight, Josh leaned over to me and said, "So, what do you think of Briarwood?"

I pondered the question for a moment, mostly wondering whether or not I should be sincere and say that my first day was a head-trip, but interesting. Instead, I went for the joke route. "I think the people here are crazy," I kidded with a grin, thinking of my encounters with Layne, Alicia, and the biting irony of making the acquaintance of not-so-reckless when I was told not to "screw up."

Downing the rest of his coffee, Josh let out a small, albeit bitter laugh. " Crazy? You haven't seen crazy yet."

* * *

><p><strong>author's note: I had this chapter written along with the first one, but I had to divide it up because of the ridiculous length. This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and now we're introduced to most of the major players. Note that I said <em>most <em>;)**

**Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed/alerted this story so far, you guys are the best! I'm gonna update 'the great inbetween' quite soon, so watch for that!  
><strong>

**xo,  
><strong>

**Ren**


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